Heyyy, look who's not dead! It's me!
This is not a new fanfiction, but a translation of my OS: Le Professeur et le Colonel. It is a short story about Colonel Moran's first meeting with the mysterious Professor Moriarty, in the time of the original Sherlock Holmes stories, the Victorian Era. It is not meant to have a complex plot or be continued (although I am considering a possible second chapter), it is more a writing exercise on the Victorian ambiance (and the ship).
I'd like to thank my wonderful beta-reader, Kourtney Mitchell (aka _.sebastianmoran._) and Sunny Thomas (aka morinaughty), without whom this would still be full of grammatical mistakes and pre-made French phrases.
If you enjoy this fanfic, please remember to leave a review, it's what motivates writers to write and helps us improve!

The Professor and the Colonel

How to start a story? It is always difficult. Once you are in the middle of the action, words flow easily; but the first ones are always the hardest to find. One might say to me, "Start from the beginning". Easier said than done. What is the beginning of this story? It could be the day of my birth, the day I joined the army, or the first time I met the Professor, or even when I discovered that I had been trapped, like so many others before, in his web. Or that he had chosen to come into mine. I wish I were able to start this off with deep, philosophical words, a moral to this story ... there is no moral. Not for people like us. So I suppose I'll have to start with what, for lack of anything better, could be the beginning.

I had just returned from the great military campaign in India. I had been sent back to the homeland to heal my wounds, and abandoned there. You can see here the gratitude of the magnificent Empire of Great Britain: you give your blood, sweat and years to serve its interests, and you are thrown away like garbage as soon as you get a bit too old. Or a bit too disobedient, in my case. But I had always been that way, and it had not once stopped me from serving my country.
So I had returned to the land of my ancestors, the stinking and foggy city of London, drowned in perpetual drizzle. I was already starting to miss the thick jungles of Bengal. I drowned my boredom in alcohol, like any good old veteran. Oh, do not think I was one of those penniless drunks that sleep under a bridge and pick-pocket passers-by. No. Me, I was just a penniless drunk who slept temporarily under a porch and swiped all of the players' stakes in the clubs (by cheating, of course).

At the moment when this story begins, I wasn't sleeping under a porch nor under a bridge, but behind the rusty bolts of a jail cell almost as filthy and stinking as the aforementioned bridges and porches. Technically, it was better: I had food and a roof. But for my dignity, I still preferred to live poor and free: I had already pulled myself out of worse situations during my peregrinations, and I would return to a gentleman's lifestyle in no time. Nevertheless, had I been that day elsewhere than in that very cell, my future would have been changed. Or rather, it would have missed a highly beneficial change, and would have continued in the poor routine of a dishonoured and bankrupt colonel, who was walking on a tightrope until it was tied around his neck.

I had spent a decent night, sleeping off my wine on the hard floor of the jail. I had drunk too much the night before (for a change ...) and I got worked up for no real reason, simply on principle, against other regulars of the pub. However, I had slightly miscalculated, and some of them were "honest folks" who had rather call our estimated peacekeepers to the rescue than settle the case by themselves, with punches and broken bottles. So the coppers locked me up for the night.

The morning after this unfortunate incident, I was awakened by a familiar voice that insistently called my name. One problem: I had just returned to town, and I was all but familiar with the other residents of the police station. And I could not put a face, let alone a name, to the voice that was lost in the recesses of my memory, made hazy by alcohol. I eventually opened my eyes with difficulty and tried to focus of the blurred figure that was dancing before them. I finally recognized the too clean, too well shaved face of an old companion. It was good old Peter Jefferson, also known as "the Cap", for his old habit of sewing sharpened coins in the visor of his cap, a treacherous but effective trick in a street brawl. He was one of my drinking buddies before I got involved in a long and successful career with the First Bengalore Pionneers. He had showed me all the treacherous techniques that are not taught in fencing lessons at Eton, but can save the life of a colonel when he finds himself trapped in a darkened alleyway. Peter had changed a lot since I had last seen him, and his face screamed of money, which immediately labelled him as "friend".

-Sebastian, old chap! he exclaimed. I thought you were in India, getting shot at by savages!
I sighed and ran a hand over my day-old stubble, before sitting up against the damp wall of my cell.
-I was still there two weeks ago, mind you. But I got shot once too many. Nice to see you too, Pete. What can you possibly be doing here, in the jail of a filthy cop shop?
-I can return you the question, mister "I am son of a Lord and I studied at Eton".
-A pub fight gone wrong. You know the drill.
-I haven't for a while, he confessed. Listen, I can pay your bail and get you out of this rat hole. Then we'll go to another bar to have a drink. As it is, I may have an offer for you that you could find interesting.
A bail, a free drink and an offer? It all seemed too good to be true, so I remained on my guard. But being who I am, I would never spit on this kind of opportunity. There would always be time to turn my coat if the situation turned sour.

Ten minutes later, we were sitting at a table in a nasty bar not far from the prison where I had spent the night, with a mug of beer in front of us both (paid by Peter, of course).

-So, Seb! How is your return to civilian life?

-For now, it's back to the gutter. I need a little more time to get myself back on my feet, and veteran pay does not help me much. Especially since I'm not really in the good graces of the army anymore.

-But you are one of the best soldiers of the Empire. Every grunt knows the name of Colonel Basher, you do half of their conquests for them! What may have happened to you?

I did not answer, and took a long sip of my mug, as if I were trying to drown the memories in my beer. In vain.

-It's not really something that I enjoy recalling. And yourself, what's up with you? Looks like you've found yourself a job more profitable than robbing purses.

Peter smiled. Not a cheerful smile, but a grin full of complicity, a smirk that meant: "I know things you do not know." Which was obvious: I would not have followed him here otherwise.

-Just so. Playing pickpockets is no longer of my rank. That's good for the ones below.

He made a falsely disgusted face.
-The ones below? I enquired, quite curious.

-I happen to have a full time employer now. An employer who needs the talents of the men of the street, and who is willing to pay for it. I do not know everything, far from it, but I would not be surprised if I learned that half of the city works for him without knowing it. And even if he does not employ them, well ... he surely sticks his nose in all the illegal rumbling in town, from the smallest cheating to the biggest plot. He is a true maestro of crime. And just like a maestro, he keeps his back turned to the public, and very few know his face.

Peter's words might seem far-fetched, but they had a strange ring of truth to them. And the man he was describing to me, an invisible king watching over his kingdom of wrong-doers from the shadows, intrigued me.

-You are of that number, I presume?

A smug grin stretched across Peter's face.

-Exactly. If I am telling you about him, Sebastian, it is because I think you might interest him. He is looking for a shooter. My visit to the prison this morning is unfortunately part of my routine; I have to recruit for the network, and police jails are often the best place to find qualified foot soldiers.

-More like the best place to find those who are too cumbersome to escape the cops, I said.

-That's why it's not the place where skilful workers are recruited, and that's why I was so surprised to find you there. Too cumbersome to escape the cops, huh?

I gave him a murderous look but did not reply. He was the one paying, after all.

-Back to the subject at hand ... you are unemployed, roofless and penniless, am I right?

Peter seemed to be insisting on humiliating me, and if he continued in this way, free drinks or not, he would end up with a knife in his back. I simply grumbled a confirmation, while taking another sip of my mug.

-In this case, I'm sure you can find your interest in this association. My employer is willing to pay a handsome amount of money for a talent such as yours.

-He had better, I replied, barely hiding my pride. Until now, it was none other than the British Empire that was paying me.

-Meanwhile, the British Empire has thrown you away like an old sock, while my employer can make you rich if you obey his orders.

He waved a grubby business card before my eyes.

-I'm not interested in wealth, I replied. You know that perfectly well.

-If it is the thrill of danger you are looking for, believe me, you will not be disappointed. He does not pay his employees to lay around all day long.

-And where can I find your mystery man?

I grabbed the card and deciphered the tiny scrawls embossed in the black cardboard.

-44, Conduit Street. You must know the place rather well, I believe, he added with a grin.

It was the case indeed. As far as I knew, it was an establishment for young girls of negotiable virtue, not the headquarters of a great criminal mastermind. Although... the two were not mutually exclusive.

-Present yourself there tomorrow. He will be notified of your visit. Try to make a good impression. And ... I do not usually worry about this, but knowing you ... make sure you do not get on his bad side. It would be better for your chances of survival.

I took a mental note, without paying too much attention to my interlocutor. I was too busy staring at the silvery downstrokes and upstrokes that spelled out:

Professor J. Moriarty, 44 Conduit Street, Mayfair, London.

Conduit Street was in a fairly posh and clean part of the city, despite its bad reputation as a hotspot for trouble. The Professor's estate was a large building with blind windows, which one entered through a heavy door with a peephole. The whole thing was a quite discreet place, not very remarkable, except of course for those who knew about it. A sign hung above the door suggested more than the business advertised. There was no plaque indicating the Professor's presence, which made me check the address again on the map. I eventually decided to knock - after all, even if I was wrong, I could still make my visit profitable, and help the local businesses, right?
A woman in her thirties, but made-up like a twenty-year-old girl, glanced at me through the peephole before opening the heavy door. She was disguised as a maid - if I say disguised, it's because no real servant would wear such an impractical and lightly-dressed outfit. She welcomed me with a broad smile.

-Come right in, sir! What may we do for your service?

I followed the offer and entered the hall. It was dark and dimly lit by a few gas lamps, which illuminated the brown and red hangings displaying licentious illustrations that were decorating the walls.

-I am here to see Professor Moriarty, I said, if he does indeed live here.

In the lack of a business card of my own, I handed him the one Peter gave me, as to support my statement. The woman quickly became less seductive.

-His apartments are upstairs. If you would like to follow me, I will introduce you.

She led me up the stairs facing the door. The Professor's apartments, or at least his parlour, were in fact on the very last floor, and we had to cross the whole building to get there. The place was noisy and hectic, and I wondered how the Professor could work in peace in this environment. Probably the reason he was staying above the brothel.

I was led along yet another corridor towards the antechamber of his office. Many of the doors along the way were open. An angry voice rose from one of them.

-MRS HALLIFAX! Where is my dressing gown ?!

I stopped for a moment. A young man was striding across one of the rooms, dressed in nothing but a white bathing towel that he was holding with one hand around his hips, the other too busy waving angrily. Water was shining in his jet black hair and droplets fell onto his chest before running down the vast planes of a perfect torso. I could not help but mentally compare him to certain Greek statues, as his skin was so pale and his torso so perfectly drawn. I must have frozen a little too long, because he stopped suddenly as he saw me.

-What are you staring at? he shouted in an annoyed tone. Out of my sight! Be gone!

He made a sudden gesture in my direction. I let my gaze linger a few moments on his fine musculature, allowing myself a slight smile, before complying and heading to the Professor's office. The man was probably not a client: considering his attitude, he seemed to live here. Apparently, the establishment also welcomed women ... or other types of men.

The antechamber was a windowless room, and as faintly lit as the chambers below. There were three armchairs and a sofa, a coffee table (devoid of any object), and wallpaper bearing a dark pattern on the walls. No bar, library, or even diplomas hanging on the walls. No clock, either.

-You are here for a consultation, I suppose? my guide asked.

A consultation? I did not have a clue what she was talking about. Did the Professor give private lessons on his free time?

-It's for a recruitment interview, actually.

She glanced at me, and nodded.

-I see. Whom should I announce?

-Colonel Sebastian Moran. Marksman, veteran of the First Bengalore Pionneers.

I could only hope that my reputation preceded me. She knocked quietly on the door and leaned into a tube mounted in the wall.

-Professor? Colonel Sebastian Moran, of the First Bengalore Pionneers, for a recruitment interview.

No answer came; or if it did, it was not audible from where I was. She turned to me again.

-You shall be introduced when the Professor is ready to see you, she said simply, before disappearing and leaving me alone.

Some time passed - impossible to determine precisely in the absence of a clock, but it seemed interminable. I paced around the room, before sitting down for a moment, and then walking again. No noise on the other side of the door - as far as I knew, Moriarty may not even be there. I finally approached the door and knocked thrice loudly. A few seconds passed before a voice rose, weakened by the wood.

-Come in, Colonel.

I frowned. How long had he been waiting for me to come forward?

The office was brightly lit by a bay window. After the darkness of the antechamber, it took me a few moments to accommodate. The place gave an impression of disorder, without being stuffy. A large wooden table was set next to one of the walls, and was covered with papers and open books. On the opposite wall stood a library, where some of the shelves also supported books, copper measuring instruments and jars of all kinds. A large brass telescope was pointing at the window. The centre of the room was occupied by two armchairs facing each other. A man was standing behind one of them, resting his elbow on its back.

-Ah, the staring man!

Goddammit! It was the man I had seen from the hallway!
He smiled at me.

-Take a seat, please.

True to my newfound reputation, I decided to stare at him a little more.

He was now dressed from head to toe, and was wearing a black suit that was probably tailored, which sharply contrasted with his crisp, immaculate shirt. He was wearing a long coat even indoors, while I had left mine in the antechamber. His dark hair was slicked back against his skull, shining in the morning light and leaving visible a large brow that might have been called receding if the man had been older - he could not be over the age of thirty. His face was as pale as alabaster, it seemed that he never went outside; and that was the case indeed. But what really caught the attention, like two magnets, were his cobra-like eyes sunk into their sockets. That was the first thing I noticed, meeting him that day, and it's still the first thing I think about every time I remember his face. Even when he smiles, his eyes remain empty and emotionless; but sometimes, when the invisible gears of his genius brain reach the end of a reflection as intense as it is elusive, a glimmer of madness appears there. Better not to be around in these moments.